by Shirl Anders
She was a willing consort now, an equal partner with passionate thrilling whimpers, quivering thighs, and her knees spreading wider upon the mattress. He ravished that willingness with greed, devouring her sweet tender pussy with masculine possessiveness. Each time he licked his tongue into her cunt, she gasped excitedly and raised her ass to him as he knelt crouched behind her. Her anus was smooth and rosy-colored and he made her cry out with passion, with each lap of his tongue over it, to return then to her vagina with stiff thrusts.
“Darth,” she squealed. “Darth!”
Then he fucked her with his tongue, grabbing her cushy hips to pump them back and forth, piercing his tongue inside her with each pull.
“Darth!” she screamed, and he knew she would climax for him as he rocked her harder. Then he felt it on his tongue, the tight clutching of her vagina. Hot liquid dripped, covering the surface of his tongue. Christ, there were tears in his eyes as his woman climaxed with his mouth on her, screaming his name ... and he knew that he owned her soul now.
Slowly, he let her hips lower to the mattress with her legs sprawled on either side of him as he knelt between her knees. He wiped his mouth with an arrogant twist of mind. He felt cocky and roguish as he picked up the blindfold and bent over Arabella’s buttocks. She was startled when he slipped the blindfold over her eyes, as he whispered, “All day and all night, little dove, remember?”
She was complacent and languid as he urged her onto her back. Then while he still knelt between her thighs, he reached down and undid the ties on his breeches, until his stiffened cock fell free, thrusting outward in a straight line. At the same time he reached for Arabella’s hand, lifting it to his cock. He guided her fingers to the shaft, her palm to the base. She gasped at the touch. He closed her hand around the thickness, holding her touch there. With the pressure of his hand over her hand squeezing his cock, he could feel the rapid beating of his pulse in the base.
“Stroke me,” he rasped, willing Arabella in this one moment to be a voluntary participant of his lust. Insanely afraid that she would not. How he could expect it of her, was his insanity, and how he could need it so desperately from her was his doom.
“You are so strong,” she whispered. Stunning him with a small caress of her own volition beneath his hand, even as he groaned involuntarily within the tumultuous feel of it. To have a woman holding his cock was a greedy male prize and Darth lifted his hand from Arabella’s as prayers of longing whispered in his mind. Yet, she stunned him again, and then humbled him, by taking a firmer grip with her slender fingers around his throbbing bulky width.
“Let me see you,” she whispered, reaching for the blindfold. “I want to see you,” she murmured, holding him enslaved against his will with her hand around his aroused cock. How could he think clearly? How could she want to see him? How could he stop her? But her hand was already there, and he did not stop her. Wanting so fiercely to believe.
Arabella’s normally golden eyes glowed amber with her languid passion as she lifted the blindfold and looked up at him. She did not look at his cock held so warmly in her hand, but at his marred face. And Darth found within her golden-amber irises not one hint of distaste for the face that she gazed at so closely. It was then and only then that she stroked his cock, turning her gaze down to it.
Instantly, he saw the hunger and desire lighting her eyes and the thrill of that insight lifted his chest sharply. She desired him ... she wanted his cock, even though he had forced his sexuality onto her so thoroughly. Beneath his gaze her nipples beaded tight and her hips shifted restlessly as her palm and fingers tested his length with a solid sure stroke that brought a groan from his lips. She’d learned her lessons well from watching his depravity earlier and now wonderfully she used it against him.
The ardent groan that spilled from Darth’s lips thrilled Arabella’s femininity thoroughly. She finally had powerful control over her dark earl, and she feasted on it. She had long since admitted to herself that she wanted Darth completely. She wanted anything and everything that he could do to her and that they could do together. Never in her life had she felt as alive as when she was with him. He bullied her and he coerced her, yet it was always ultimately for her pleasure. What man could do the things to a woman as Darth had done to her and not care?
Yet at that precise moment, she hadn’t thoughts for any of it, but the tempting male organ in her hand. Its fleshy red coloring belayed its strength and power. This was not a piece of pliable flesh. It was sturdy and vigorous. So long. So thick. Her sex ached deeply as the circle of her hand pulled and pressed around its stoutness. Each draw she stroked along the wide shaft brought the head upward and the crease in its center mesmerized her. Darth groaned harshly as his angular hips moved with her pumping hand. Then small bits of creamy substance oozed from the tender slit, making her gasp as her sex began to ache unbearably. That yearning sensation deep inside her was the torment building between her thighs. Clutching torment that had a master and salvation now. She held part of that master in her hand, worshiping it and loving it.
Darth’s lean belly drew inward, outlining powerful ridges of sinew, as his muscular chest expanded and his hands curled into fists at his sides. The sight of his beautiful masculine strength undulating with the stroking of her hand delighted her senses beyond compare. Then she knew where the torment was drawing her. She knew where her free hand and tongue craved to be. The crease drew her tongue and Darth’s male sacks drew her hand.
“Arabella,” Darth gasped as Arabella’s delicate pink tongue licked the crease in the head of his cock. “Christ,” he further panted as her hand cupped his balls, lifting and squeezing them.
When he finally unclenched his eyelids, his gaze was arrested by the sight and feel of Arabella lavishly licking her tongue around the head of his cock. This had to be every man’s sweeping erotic fantasy and the fact that Arabella laved her tongue on his cock, he with his scarred and hapless visage, staggered him. In addition to the wonderfully powerful pleasure she reaped over him, making him groan outrageously, as her pretty blush lips tested the shape of the bulbous head.
He was confident that he’d never felt anything as resplendent as he tested Arabella’s eager mouth in response with a return nudge. Her wet gossamer lips parted further as the head of his cock intruded into her mouth and her tongue slid down the long ridge along the underside of his cock. His groan was absurd and robust, as his fingers clenched into the thick strands of her hair.
“That’s it lick,” he hissed. “Suck it.” He could not control the hot words spilling from his mouth. “More,” he pleaded. His hands gripped the sides of Arabella’s face as he guided her. It was an overwhelming urge that he could not deny as he swung his hips slowly, watching his cock fill, then leave, then fill Arabella’s mouth again, while incredibly she danced his balls in her palm and took his cock again and again. Faster now, as he begged her to suck him faster.
“Just the head.” He guided her head faster ... faster. “Christ!”
He wanted Arabella to take it — he demanded that she take it. It was cruel, it was untrustworthy, yet he could not stop even for Arabella’s innocence. Then it was too late. His hot seed filled her mouth, and he would forever wonder what might have transpired next, because of that moment.
Chapter Fourteen
“Fire! Lord Peregrine! The Retainer’s Hall is on fire and Mr. Thurmane sent word that the stables might be...” Chicery’s words were cut short by the earl’s bedchamber door bursting open.
“The stables!” Lord Peregrine bellowed, and he looked for all the world like a raging barbarian, himself coming to battle down the estate walls. Lord Peregrine was bare-chested with his black hair in wild disarray. Chicery could only step backward, mutely nodding his head.
“Are there people inside?” Darth asked even as he began turning around hastily to gather his discarded shirt and boots.
Chicery finished his lordship’s fearful answer. “There was a meeting in progress, my lord!”
“Damnation!” Darth cursed as he sprinted toward the door. “Send someone for the doctor, Chicery. Now!”
That was the last hurried exchange that Arabella heard as the two men disappeared out of her sight. She quickly grabbed the bed sheet around her as she ran to shut the door, still able to hear Darth’s deep voice barking orders as he made his way out of the manor.
“They will need my help,” she whispered. She knew a healer could be lifesaving at this moment, until a doctor arrived, and just the thought of people suffering put any notion she had of attempting to escape out of her mind. An escape she hardly wished for any longer, if not for her small brother’s peril. She realized a moment’s hesitation when she thought about what Darth might do when he realized she’d left his intended confines. Yet she had to be braver than her hesitations, people were suffering. She would deal with Darth and his reaction when the time came. With the decision made, her only problem was how to help without any clothes? There were people in desperate need and she certainly was not going to let one little predicament hinder her aid. Determined, she went to Darth’s dressing chamber.
“There has to be something here I can manage with.”
All of Darth’s clothes were huge compared to her smaller frame. Still, she did not let this deter her. She found a pair of gray woolen trousers and pulled them on, having to roll up the pant legs half a dozen times, until the length finally came to her ankles. The rolled ends would not stay, so she found a pair of stockings and put these on, stuffing the roll ends of the trousers into the top of the short stocking. Gathering the billowing ends of the waistband, she went after a breech’s tie. Then she retrieved one of Darth’s blue linen shirts that did not appear new or expensive and put this on. There was no hope for shoes.
Arabella moved to leave the bedchamber while braiding her hair into one long rope hanging down her back. In the process of doing this, she passed Darth’s desk and saw her leather satchel there. She did not take the time to wonder why or how it had appeared. She was just glad that destiny intervened, because now she could be truly effective in her attempt to help the injured.
Darth was manic, until he was certain there were no more people in the burning Retainer’s Hall. He had carried the last person out himself — a man who was his head grounds keeper. The grounds keeper had succumbed to the smoke after entering the building to rescue people one too many times. He was left coughing, but doing fine.
Darth had known as soon as he’d laid eyes on the blaze that there was no hope to save the hall. He’d immediately order people away because he wanted no further injuries in the attempt to save a lost cause. Now he turned his attention to the stables, issuing orders as he went. They had set up a temporary area for the injured by the well-house. How many were injured he did not know, but one look in that direction told him it was too many. Christ, one would be too many, he thought, scraping a hand through his sooty hair.
Chicery approached, as he asked, “The doctor?”
“No, my lord, he has not arrived yet, but we have gotten a bit of heaven sent luck, sir.”
Darth’s gaze swept the dozen or so bodies laid out, people in various degrees of injury. That was when he saw a small indistinct figure moving among the injured. Whoever the man was he seemed to have command of the situation, issuing instructions to two women by his side.
“Heaven sent,” Darth mumbled absently, not really taking Chicery’s meaning.
“It is the lady, my lord. Miss Arabella, you said. She is a gift, and that is certain. Right to mending she has gone without a moment’s thought. I hardly recognized her at first, but what does it matter what an Angel of Mercy is wearing, when faced with such a tragedy.”
“Arabella?” Darth muttered, still not combining Chicery’s words with the figure working among the wounded as he moved forward. Why had she not run? Why had Arabella not tried to escape his slavery?
“If we could keep Billy’s arm submerged in cold water,” Arabella explained to one of the women she had found trying to treat the wounded. “It would be better than this butter. A bucket would do. But it must be done quickly.”
“I will bring it for you.” Darth’s deep voice came out of the darkness.
A voice Arabella would recognize anywhere now, as she fought her startled shiver, saying as firmly as she could. “Hurry, Darth.” Then her attention returned to the boy with the severely burned left arm. His name, she’d been told, was Billy McFarden and he could be no more than Nicholas’ age. Arabella lifted the boy’s head to give him a drink of periwinkle tea mixed with ground willow bark, which would help alleviate the pain the boy had to be in. Even though he was putting up a brave front, she thought little Billy was in shock.
“All the way in,” Arabella instructed Darth moments later, when he returned to her side with the bucket of cold water. She lifted Billy’s arm carefully as Darth supported Billy’s back with one hand and used his other hand to position the bucket.
“Miss? Miss? Peter the oxen keeper, over here, believes his arm is broken. Can you help? He’s in an awful lot of pain, Miss?” Arabella swiped a hand across her brow and called out. “Yes, I will be right there.”
Then she dared to look at Darth for the first time — who look as if he were Satan himself, with black soot covering his face and emphasizing his scarring. It was impossible to tell his temperament. “This water should be kept as cold as possible, Darth. Changing it every five minutes would not be out of order. Billy might get sleepy on you because I have given him something for the pain.”
“I will see to it,” Darth murmured, and with this reassurance Arabella rose fearlessly and went to see about the man named Peter with the broken arm. “Thank you, little dove.” Darth’s voice sounded out of the darkness behind her, and Arabella sighed in relief as she hurried forward. It appeared her dark master was not furious with her. She wondered fleetingly whether this could be a change in their unusual relationship. Perhaps soon she might be able to tell Darth about Nicholas?
When she arrived by Peter’s side, he proved to be a man of considerable weight and breath with a disagreeable nature and an aversion to letting women help him. “No, wee little split-tail, whit men’s breeches on is going to touch me er do any good!” he declared right away as Arabella pursed her lips looking up at the brawny brute.
Indeed, Arabella thought, he was probably right, by the looks of it his shoulder was dislocated, and while she could have set it, he was simply too big. Still, she allowed him the gruffness because he was in obvious pain.
“I could give you something for the pain,” she suggested. “That would not be touching you.”
“Well, I don’t know, little split-tail, whiskey would do me fine ... Ah!” Peter suddenly wailed, because Darth had appeared at Peter’s side, laying a hard grip to his injured arm.
“What did you call her?” Darth hissed as Peter turned white beneath Darth’s glare and tightening grip.
“I-I!” Peter yelped.
“Apologize, to the lady,” Darth hissed angrily. “Then thank her for even offering to help the likes of you.”
“Darth, it is all right...” Arabella began, only to be silenced by his glare. He truly did look like a black ghoulish avenger with all that soot, she thought.
“Please, me lady. Please be excusing me manners, er me words. It is the pain I’m thinking,” Peter whined.
Darth dropped Peter’s arm and stepped toward Arabella saying, “This man can suffer, until the doctor arrives.”
Arabella considered that it was fine with her. She had not liked being called a split-tail, it sounded crude, however she was not really certain what the words meant. Yet the gleam in burly Peter’s eyes on his last quote of it was enough to warn her it was likely very inappropriate.
“Yer, lordship, I truly regret...” Peter stammered behind them, as Darth guided Arabella away ordering over his shoulder.
“Shut up!”
“Was it truly that bad, Darth, what he called me?” Arabella questioned, in all in
nocence.
“It was,” Darth growled.
His anger had not gone away, but merely been constrained by his willpower. However with Arabella’s query, her pure innocence struck him again and visions of how vulnerable that innocence made her blazed the way inside him, forging fierce protectiveness. He would do well to remember that Arabella was not from the more jaded English culture. Being bought and sold as a bond’s maid lent one to believe of more worldly knowledge on Arabella’s part. But such was not the case. He had been privy to it enough now, in their short time together, to know Arabella’s inexperience was true and a fact.
“I-I, should check the injured again, Darth,” she said, interrupting his thoughts. “I hope the doctor comes soon. I am only a simple healer and some of these people need so much more.”
“You have saved lives,” Darth assured her as she turned and he followed discreetly behind her, ready to help her if need be.
Chapter Fifteen
Several hours later, found Arabella still standing vigil beside the young Billy McFarden with the severely burned arm. It had proven to be the most serious injury of all the people injured that night and Darth stepped inside the cottage having just spoken to the boy’s father outside. But for a moment he moved no further into the room, instead standing silent as he watched Arabella.
